


Danse Macabre

by sunshinestealer



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 12:55:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4626105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinestealer/pseuds/sunshinestealer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A waltz between Kurloz Makara and Damara Megido.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Danse Macabre

Damara. You have no idea _what_ quadrant you’d call the complicated tango she and you take part in, all for the glory of the Angel of Double Death. But, whatever you may call it, she’s a capable dancer.

You share something in common — you both enjoy obfuscating the truth and refusing to meaningfully communicate. You’ve overheard Damara’s conversations with the humans. She deliberately dumbs herself down for those poor little sacrificial infant woolbeasts, but crudely shouts in East Beforan to anybody in your team who is willing to engage her.

But there she is, leaning coolly against a tree and smoking a joint with a filling of dubious origin. Last you checked, you were the one with a little heated cabinet in your hive for cultivation of catnip and other such substances. You wouldn’t put it past her to sneak in somehow and take a little clipping for herself.

She makes it all look effortless as she blows smoke rings, unaware of your presence just yet. Which is the way it usually goes — trolls have complained about finding you creepy because you do possess the ability to show up seemingly out of nowhere. Even when you aren’t flash-stepping, your footsteps are inaudible, and your presence is never noted, as if you blend perfectly into the shadows.

Damara _still_ hangs around in this particular dream bubble. Right at the foot of the tree, where Rufioh dumped her awkwardly and without ceremony, in favour of the smelly blueblood with a thousand yard stare and a permanent, stifled smile. 

Why recall the past in such a way? You’ve tried to move on from yours, even with anxious reminders coming through your pan every day that you’re not worthy of your Lord for your former misdeeds. You’re only fit to blindly serve your pan-rotted bloodlink who masquerades as one of the _real_ Messiahs. The Bard who leads the procession straight towards the open tent-flap of the Dark Carnival. That glory is not - and never will be - yours. And it’s hard not to feel a slight twinge of animosity at being demoted in such a way, when you _know_ of the honours bestowed upon you in an alternate universe.

But there’s Damara, the miniature alternate of the legendary Demoness. Not raised to be the perfect personal assistant to Lord English, no. Her childhood had mostly been spent on another continent with her lusus, before traversing the sea to find her fortunes elsewhere. And it had gotten her ingratiated in Rufioh’s group of friends, excited to meet somebody from the nation that produced their favourite flavour of niche pop culture. 

Damara’s animosity had only grown, though, during the game. Time players were required, according to your group’s research, to keep the session running smoothly. Like clockwork, if you would pardon that pun. 

It was just too bad that Meenah didn’t get that particular memo, and delighted in toying with the girl’s emotions to the point of mental breakdown. Rufioh had never loved her, Meenah reminded her over a particularly cruel public message on Prongle. (She would later post another Prong to her legion of followers: _“re: last prong - no shade internded! 38D”_ ) 

No wonder Rufioh had left her, when she was no longer useful for him in procuring anime DVDs and comics, along with the odd rare Fiduspawn here and there. Rufioh wasn’t a nasty person, perhaps just clueless. Damara deserved better than a flaky troll who refused to grow up, and perhaps it’s karmic that Rufioh is now stuck in a relationship with somebody he’s started taking great lengths to avoid. 

Every now and again, Damara lets her façade slip — and her inner rage is practically incandescent. You know from personal experience just how much anger can fester within a person. You keep yours beneath a smiling, eternally silent veneer. (Except for the times when you occasionally flip people off, of course.) And, before your ‘incident’, you had a rather grandiose sense of self-worth, one that you continue to maintain even with no way to vocalise it anymore.

You continue to watch her for a few more moments. She tuts and stubs out the joint when it grows too short, and grinds it beneath her shoe. If you were Cronus, this would perhaps be a perfect moment to jump in and made some sort of gross romantic advance on her, procured from those human movies where the main conflict is derived from their ridiculous hang-ups surrounding polyamory and pansexuality.

No, Damara fishes out another paper and baggie from her inside pocket, content to fiddle her fingers in the act of rolling it. Finally, she looks right in your direction.

This should be good. You use sign language - which, not every one of your former companions has taken the chance to learn, even after millions of sweeps in the bubbles - and she speaks in East Beforan. Any attempts at mutual understanding are gone out of the gate.

But… there is one language you both speak — and Troll Casanova would be proud.  _L'amour._

You stride up to her, and she wraps her arms around your shoulders, her teeth opened in a threatening display. You knew one motherfucker sweeps ago, a sea-dweller with the scariest damn smile you ever did see, his teeth exactly like those of an anglerfish. Damara’s, in comparison, are just dull. No fangs, really, with the exception of two pairs of canines. Weak.

You smile infuriatingly back at her, and you can tell she’s pissed — her eyebrows knit together, and she makes another loud tutting noise. You slip your hands up between your two bodies, to make a very basic sign.

**_SPEAK._**

Damara shakes her head, but you persist until she finally snaps: “FINE” in the common language.

You chuckle from deep within your throat. You’ve known for sweeps that Damara knows how to communicate with you all. She just chooses not to.

In reply, you make an “okay” sign with your finger and thumb. She pokes her finger through it, challenging you to respond to the vulgarity.

You pantomime the clopping of a horse’s hooves, then a pair of goggles, and then: “NOT.” You are not Horuss, and you will not be scandalised by such crude behaviour. Damara giggles, reverting back to East Beforan before planting a short kiss on your jaw.

You put your hands down and rest your fingers on her back, claws digging in a little. She shivers in pleasure as you rake them down a little. And then she pulls your hair, shoving you up against the tree trunk she had been so coolly stood in front of just moments ago.

“Are you following Meenah?” She asks, after laying her head on her shoulder. (One moment, you’re in red-rom territory, the next, black. It just makes things more exciting.)

You shrug. Your lord still works his chaos throughout this corner of the universe, popping dream bubbles here and there. The efforts of one heiress with ideas above her station surely won't put a single dent into his plans.

Well. There is the matter of the meddlesome Serket. You’ve got _two_ to deal with now, of all things. Or, as they would say, “multiple irons in the fire!” You groan internally at that.

Be that as it may, they are not going to impede the destruction of the universe, the opportunity for your souls to finally wink out of existence. Or, in your case, join the universe’s greatest Gathering with all your brothers and sisters in faith.

Damara continues looking into your eyes, before frowning. The glare she sends you could strip your paint right off your face.

“Not good.” She hisses, drawing away from you and turning her back. She has her fists bunched by her sides. “You go follow her.”

You step around so you’re in front of her. Don’t want to be ungentlemanly, grabbing and twisting her all the way back around. You know how much she hates Meenah, along with the Serkets and their glory-hound ways. You can see right into her head, the amount of loathing and rage boiling underneath somebody who used to be so sweet and is now jaded and embittered by her lot in life. (Well, afterlife.)

Your signs are still basic enough for her to understand, even with no formal instruction in how you now communicate. You could, of course, blare your wisdom straight into the mind of this handmaiden, but you feel like that’d be stepping on some kind of unspoken boundary.

**_FOR THE LORD._**

Damara nods, repeating what you just said in East Beforan. Then you both sit down and take a moment of silence.

It’s funny how you both were trolls who were once so eager to talk. Of course, you sewed your mouth shut. Damara just had to cultivate a persona based around erroneous expectations of what a female from Eastern Beforus _should_ be like, and over the years, she’s perfected it.

The best part is that absolutely nobody knows what you’re doing. You’re both sneaky motherfuckers, in that sense. Dying has made your group complacent, willing to simply stick with their romantic and platonic partners and leave you two alone. Well, for the most part. Meenah _was_ asking a lot of questions recently, and you’ve overheard Aranea’s got herself a job expositing your life stories.

You’ve made all sorts of secret crypts and labyrinths of your memories. Nobody’s going to get past the security you’ve employed, especially considering how much you’ve harnessed your mental powers over the years.

Sometimes you take a little saunter through your past via the dream bubbles. Your personal history isn’t… well, particularly joyful. But that’s the beautiful thing about it — it allowed you to appreciate the mirth and miracles in the every day things. 

You’ve lived through the day when you had just turned five sweeps, and you discovered your dead lusus, beached and bloated from some plague. 

You’ve lived through the authorities - well-meaning adult trolls with patronising grins - coming to give you a medical examination and make you a ward of the state. How they tutted and cooed when you met all the criteria for Troll Marfan’s, meaning that if some shit-eating sea-dweller forcibly took you in as their cullee, you’d be coddled to within an inch of your life and imprisoned back in the miserable highblood foster care system for any transgression on a long list, one of which was _leaving the hive without the express permission of your culler_.

You thank the Lord that no sea-dwellers were available to adopt you back then, and a place opened up at a boarding schoolhive for those of your faith. That got the authorities off your back.

And then you decided to play SGrub with some friends you’d made online. Between long hours learning scripture and working to keep the seminary in order, you’d chat to trolls around the continent. A welcome outlet, considering how a good portion of your fellow classmates had either taken their vows of silence (that is, not talking until services or Gatherings) or they simply didn’t enjoy your company. Their loss.

The first troll you became friendly with was also a victim of culling, which he lamented to anybody who would still listen to his complaints. He was adopted by a jade-blood, who insisted on nannying him, all for the crime of leaving the brooding caverns without a lusus. He spoke of his arduous life, living in a middle class neighbourhood and being home-educated for five hours per day. You rolled your eyes behind the computer screen, but continued to humour him.

Then he introduced you to Meulin and everybody else who would take part in the game… and the rest is history. 

You look over at Damara, who has rolled another joint, especially for you. This time you can tell it’s the holy herb. A very pungent strain of it too. Damara tosses it into your lap.

“I give it to you now. If you go do work.”

You chuckle again and sign an “okay” back at her, pocketing it for later. Let it not be said that Kurloz Makara requires a carrot and stick method to get off his ass and do something. You stand up and dust off your shorts and leggings, offering one bony hand out to Damara, pulling her up.

**_TOGETHER?_**  

You sign this with your free hand, and Damara grins and waltzes closer towards you. Oh, yes. She’ll be happy to partake in this tango. Just you wait and see.

 


End file.
